Sometimes she thought of that other life, further back, in her mistress's house at Fleet, all the innocent service and affection, the careful, exquisite tending of the delicious person of Baby, her humble, dutiful intimacy with Baby's mother. She would shut her eyes and feel Baby's hands on her neck, and the wounding pressure of his body against her breasts. And then Rose dreamed another dream.
She no longer cared to sew now, but when Tanqueray's mending was done, she would sit for hours with her hands before her, dreaming.
He found her thus occupied one evening when he had come home after seeing Jane. After seeing Jane he was always rather more aware of his wife's existence than he had been, so that he was struck now by the strange dejection of her figure. He came to her and stood, leaning against the chimney-piece and looking down at her, as he had stood once and looked down at Jane.
"What is it?" he said.
"It's nothing. I've a cold in me head."
"Cold in your head! You've been crying. There's a blob on your dress." (He kissed her.) "What are you crying about?"
"I'm not cryin' about anything."
"But—you're crying." It gave him pain to see Rose crying.
"If I am it's the first time I've done it."
"Are you quite sure?"